


Kamikaze

by megyal



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-12
Updated: 2008-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(prompt: 'dart'): <i>... Frank darts in and out, like a sharp little amused knife to stab at Bob's person...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Kamikaze

Frankie is a blur of dark hair, dark eyes and a wide laughing mouth; he moves like mercury, slipping through throngs of people at whatever gathering they might be in, body arching and twisting as he marches over with determination towards Bob.

Bob usually watches him approach with a grim mixture of resignation and excitement, because no matter how he fends off Frank, no matter how he threatens to kill him, Frank darts in and out, like a sharp little amused knife to stab at Bob's person with giggling kisses and brace surprisingly strong arms around him in a quick hug. He's a kamikaze kisser, disregarding Bob's semi-annoyed grunts quite easily and going in with great resolve to get what he wants.

Bob stopped being semi-annoyed five hundred kisses ago.

*

Frankie stalks Bob with the finesse of an eager kitten, and he pounces with a tiny yell.

Sometimes, like now, Bob unknowingly steps to one side and Frank misses his target completely. This never fails to amuse Gerard, who sits on the nearest surface and laughs until tears stream down the sides of his face, holding his sides.

"I'm glad that I can amuse you, fucker," Frankie says, picking himself up from the ground. He's used to falling, tripping, stumbling; his body knows just what to do. He's actually a little proud of being small and quick, it really works well for his Stalking-Bob sessions. His target is looking at him with that stoic expression, a slight lifting of one side of his mouth indicating dry humour.

"What. What," Frankie says with a sniff, brushing at his shirt and squinting up at Bob. "What?"

"Don't you ever get tired of the kamizake runs?" Bob rumbles and shakes his hair out of his eyes as Gerard goes off into another round of raspy laughter. "It must be hell on your body."

"He's a hyper little shit," Gerard declares, wiping tears from his eyes. "But he's _our_ hyper little shit, bless his heart."

"You don't like it?" Frankie demands, sidling closer. Bob turns to keep him constantly in his range of vision, still looking amused. Frankie decides that he likes when Bob has that very small, wry smile on his face. It softens the harsh mask that Bob insists on wearing nearly all the time, even around close friends, and makes his eyes look a little lighter. "Cause if you don't like it… actually, I was going to offer to stop, but that's actually not going to happen. Sorry."

"You're not that sorry," Bob points out, and shrugs a little. "I don't hate it."

"Sweet!" Frankie darts in and out and Bob bats at him as one would flail at a persistent moth, managing to catch Frankie on the arm with a pretty good punch before Frankie scatters off, giggling in that patented pitch designed to drill into Bob's brain.

"He's a quick little fucker, isn't he?" Gerard's face is fond as he gazes after Frankie, who is now involved in a surprisingly serious discussion with Ray, utilizing solemn movements of his arms, fingers stretching wide and curving around the neck of some invisible guitar, holding down nonexistent notes against frets while Ray shakes his head violently and shifts Frankie's fingers to create fictional cascades of chords. Frankie purses his lips, and then says something quick and sharp to Ray, who folds his hands over his chest and radiates disapproval of whatever Frankie is suggesting. Bob rolled his eyes; in a few minutes, Frankie will jab into something else, maybe some game with Mikey, or a rambling over their venue with one of the bodyguards. The only thing that can probably pin Frankie down for more than fifteen minutes is a long, slow phone-call from Jamia, which leaves him literally beaming as if he's swallowed the sun. He'll sit in some corner, just being delighted with everything in general.

Bob shrugs in agreement with Gerard, and goes back to the book he was trying to pick up before Frankie had snuck up on him.

*

"I'm getting married," Frankie tells him in as he dives into Bob's personal space and presses his face into Bob's chest. He squeezes Bob tightly, his hold more energized than ever; Bob suddenly feels that if Frankie wasn't holding onto him, he'd do something stupid like stagger back. Frankie raises his face, pressing his chin against Bob's chest and smiling; his face is so close and Bob feels a small stab in the vicinity of his sternum, but it's on the inside of his ribcage. Weird.

"Married?" he echoes, as if he'd never seen this coming. Frankie's enchanting smile dims just a little.

"Yeah. You, I want you to be there. You'll be there, right? Stand right beside me, that's the way I want it. All of you guys."

Bob does something he never ever did before. He leans forward and presses his mouth against Frankie's temple, not a fleeting, laughing kiss, but something lingering and bitter-sweet. Frankie actually pulls back, looking surprised and pleased in the front-layer of his expression, but the back-layer, that part that Frankie rarely knows he is showing, is one of confused distress. Bob squeezes him once, fiercely, and then lets him go.

"I'll be there," Bob says with a strong enough smile, holding it firm against his face. Frankie nods once, and takes a jerky step away. For a moment, he looks as if he wants to step back to Bob, maybe stand close and tilt his face up and… and…

He turns, and darts away.

 **fin**


End file.
